“And then what?”
“Apparently he walked on down the trail.”
“What was the idea, Ames?” Keating asked.
Frank said, “I wanted to look over some of the country. I... I walked on down the trail and met Miss Coe.”
“I see. Went as far as her camp with her?”
“Well, I walked on a ways below camp.”
“How far?”
“Oh, perhaps two hundred yards.”
“Then what?”
“Then I turned back.”
“Back up the trail?”
“No, I didn’t. I made a swing.”
Roberta Coe, rushing to his assistance, said, “He was looking over the country in order to find a site for some traps this winter.”
“Oh, looking for traps, eh?”
“A place to put traps,” Roberta Coe said acidly.
“Which way did you turn, Ames? Remember now, we can check on some of this.”
Ames said, “I turned up the draw, crossed over the divide and then the rainstorm overtook me, and I lay in a cave up there by the ridge.”
“You turned east?” the ranger asked, suddenly interested, and injecting himself into the conversation.
“Yes.”
“Looking for a trap-line site?” Olney asked, incredulously.
“Well, I was looking the country over. I had intended to look for a trap-line site and then—”
“What are you talking about?” Olney said. “You know this country as well as you know the palm of your hand. Anyhow, you wouldn’t be trapping up there. You’d be trapping down on the stream.”
Ames said, “Well, I told Miss Coe that I— Well, I was a little embarrassed. I wanted to walk with her but I didn’t want her to think I–It was just one of those things.”
“You mean you weren’t looking for a trap site?” Keating asked.
“No. I wanted to walk with her.”
“In other words, you lied to her. Is that right?”
Ames, who had seated himself once more on a box, was up with cold fury. “Get out of here,” he said.
“And don’t answer any more questions, Frank,” Roberta Coe pleaded. “You don’t have to talk to people when they are that insulting.”
Keating said, “And I’m going to give you the benefit of a little investigation too, Miss Coe.”
Ames, his face white with fury, said, “Get out! Damn you, get out of my cabin!”
Bill Eldon grinned. “Well, Keating, you wanted to do the questioning. I guess you’ve done it.”
“That’s it,” Keating said grimly. “I’ve done it, and I’ve solved your murder case for you.”
“Thanks,” Bill Eldon said dryly.
They filed out of the cabin.
Once more Keating said, “I order you to put that man under arrest.”
“I heard you,” Bill Eldon said.
Keating turned to Olney. “What sort of title does this man have to this property?”
“Well, he’s built this cabin under lease from the Forestry Service—”
“And the Forestry Service retains the right to inspect the premises?”
“I guess so, yes.”
“All right,” Keating said, “let’s do some inspecting.”
Frank Ames stood in the doorway, his heart pounding with anger, and the old nervous weakness was back, making the muscles of his legs quiver. He watched the men moving around in front of the cabin, saw the ranger suddenly pause. “This chopping block has been moved,” Olney said. “It was over there for quite a while. You can see the depression in the ground. Why did you move it, Ames?”
Ames, suddenly surprised, said, “I didn’t move it. Someone else must have moved it.”
Olney tilted the chopping block on edge, rolled it back to one side.
Keating said, “Someone has disturbed this earth. Is there a spade here?”
Olney said, “Here’s one,” and reached for the shovel which was standing propped against the cabin.
Keating started digging under the place where the chopping block had been.
Ames pushed forward to peer curiously over Bill Eldon’s shoulder.
Roberta Coe, standing close to him, slipped her hand into his, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“What’s this?” Keating asked.
The spade had caught on a piece of red cloth.
Keating dropped to his knees, pulled away the rest of the loose soil with his fingers, brought out a knotted red bandanna, untied the knots and spread on the ground the assortment of things that were rolled up in it.
Ames, looking with incredulous eyes, saw a leather billfold, a card case distended from cards and documents, a fountain pen, a pencil, a notebook, a knife, some loose silver, a white handkerchief, a package of cigarettes, a folder of matches and a small, round waterproof match case.
Keating picked up the card case, opened it to show the cards of identification, neatly arranged in hinged cellophane pockets.
The first card showed a picture of a man with thick hair, a close-clipped dark mustache, and, even in the glimpse he had of it, Frank Ames could see it was the photograph of the murdered man.
“Deputy license of George Bay,” Keating announced. “Here’s another one. Identification showing George Bay licensed as a private detective. Here’s a credit card, Standard Oil Company, made out to George Bay. Some stuff that’s been in here is missing. You can see this card case has been distended with cards that were in the pockets. They’re gone now. What did you do with them, Ames?”
Ames could only shake his head.
“You see,” Keating said triumphantly, turning to Eldon. “He thought he could keep anyone from finding out the identity of the murdered man, so he removed everything that could have been a means of identification.”
The sheriff shook his head sadly. “This murderer is making me plumb mad.”
“You don’t act like it,” Keating said.
“Thinking we’d be so dumb we couldn’t find all the clues he planted unless he was so darned obvious about it,” the sheriff went on sadly. “It’s just plumb insultin’ to our intelligence. He was so darned afraid we wouldn’t find all that stuff he even moved the choppin’ block. I’d say that man just don’t think we’ve got good sense.”
“You mean you’re going to try to explain away this evidence?” Keating asked.
Bill Eldon shook his head. “I’m not explaining a thing. It’s just plumb insultin’, that’s all.”
Part Three
Roberta Coe, her mind in a turmoil, followed a tributary of the main stream, walking along a game trail, hardly conscious of where she was going or of her surroundings, wanting only to get entirely away from everyone.
She could keep silent, protect her secret and retain her position in her circle of friends, or she could tell what she knew, help save an innocent man — and bring the security of her life, with all of its pleasant associations, tumbling down in ruins. After all, the sheriff had not specifically asked her to identify those photographs.
It was not an easy decision.
Yet she knew in advance what her answer was to be. She had sought the vast, rugged majesty of the mountains, the winding trail along the talkative stream, to give her strength.
If she had been going to take refuge in weakness, she would have been in camp with her companions, a highball glass in her hand, talking, joking, using the quick-witted repartee of her set to shield her mind from the pressure of her conscience.
But she needed strength, needed it desperately. Frank Ames had managed to get spiritual solace from these mountains. If she could only let some of their sublime indifference to the minor vicissitudes of life flow into her own soul.
Then it would be easy. Now it was—
Suddenly Roberta sensed something wrong with a patch of deep shadow to the left of the trail. There was the semblance of solidity about that shadow, and then, even as her eyes tried to interpret what she saw, the figure that was almost hidden in the shadow moved.